Saying goodbye can be difficult.
“See ya tomorrow” or even “I’ll catch up with you next week” — those are easy. Big goodbyes, especially the forever goodbyes, those often bring tears. (Did I mention how I wept Sunday watching the end of Six Feet Under? A TV show. That ended 10 years ago!)
I’m thinking of real goodbyes right now (not series finales, gah). I remember the tearful goodbye on the steps of Blakely Hall when my parents left me on a college campus my freshman year. I think I saw them two weeks later (maybe even one week), but that goodbye took courage.
Sometimes saying goodbye to a place is as hard as saying goodbye to a person.
A hotel room, a shopping mall, the drive-thru at Starbucks –those are easy places to leave. We didn’t stay long. We don’t get attached.
But walking through an empty house, leaving a workplace for the last time, disembarking the cruise ship … it makes me think of the last scene on Project Runway when the losing contestant is packing of his sewing kit and waxing nostalgic about his time on the show.
And then the lights go out and the music comes up. [Everything in life has a television metaphor in this post, I guess.]
That’s how I feel today saying goodbye to this place. I’ve been here long enough to witness two full moons. And I’m pretty sure I’ll never be back.
The people here were nice. The weather was great. And the view out the back of our camper was amazing. Every morning, the sun broke over the island across the bay in an unobstructed view. Water lapped the dock as the tide came in and went out. One day, we saw the fin of a dolphin meandering by.
But this place is a long, long way from anywhere else. It’s not the sort of place where you just drop by. And its greatest feature — the fishing — is not a draw for me.
So as I walked the dog in the twilight, I drank in the neat rows of campers, the perfect pavement beneath my doggy’s feet, the big sky overhead. This place has the tranquility that is wrought from its isolation from civilization.
Peace. Quiet. Goodbye.